


The Account of the Weregild

by Caedmaeg



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anglo-Saxon, Gen, Halloween, Original work - Freeform, bloodfeuds, sorcery, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:56:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caedmaeg/pseuds/Caedmaeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story told by a fellow by the fire.  Inspired by a misunderstanding of the word "weregild."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Account of the Weregild

          You say it is tradition to placate the ghosts which would plague us by telling stories of them, stories of their exploits when alive, that the blood of the hearers run coldly in the veins and the warmth be given to these same shades.

            I understood you rightly, then. Well, it’s hard to say whether my tale will placate any shadow hereabout. Maybe a man more road-weary than I am would know when he’s haunted. When do ghosts stay around? But if it’s chilling your blood wants, I might give it you.

 

            When I was a youth, I was one of the war-band of Hogarth. A mighty and tall man, Hogarth led us against the encroaching Vikings time and again. His arms were strong, but his hands generous, and so he was well-loved by many in that village. Some sniffed and said he’d be in for a rough time if the land ever soured; if his cattle or sheep suffered loss, there’d be no shared bounty and thus no cloud of good will about him.

            The sniffers, however, took care not to say so too loudly, lest they be loudly disproved.

            And the most careful of them was the nobleman Heorold. His house was about the size of Hogarth’s, and if anything, more bountiful yet. There was no shadow upon him, for he had no reason to envy anyone…though his hands clenched a whit harder at his store of barley and oats, of mead and ale. One always got the sense (but rarely said) that his wide eyes counted the goblets quaffed, the loaves baked, the morsels taken by a hundred hands when Heorold hosted a harvest feast.

            So there were these houses, foremost in that corner of the land, and without obvious quarrel. True, Hogarth had perhaps waged fiercer battle against the hordes from the sea and the north – and maybe Heorold had spoken among his trusted men of the glories stolen from him by this dark, wild man.

            Small skirmishes arose between men of Hogarth and men of Heorold. A bushel of this or that went missing; the cook of Hogarth’s house was heard to exclaim “How can we go through oats so fast when there were eight bags here this morning?” One of Hogarth’s men, convinced a Heoroldian carried it off, crept to where he watched the sheep, blacked his eye, and ran off with a sheep for good measure. There were taunts on the road, thralls and ceorls both behaving basely.

            Hogarth would smile and wave a hand, saying “These young men! They spoil for a fight, I’ll be bound.” All would surely be most genial. Heorold would try to wave his hand in equal carelessness, but a slight quaver always gave away how such small blows (often instigated by his own men) needled his heart. And so it went, one lord half-heartedly discouraging his men, while the other wholeheartedly encouraged them behind a mask of deceit.

 

            That fellow over there nods off. Very well, I shall skip over the way the women and children grew restless and the men restive. I shall skip the slow agony of the dry summer, of the brown fields and riverbeds. You would not find it at all harrowing if I described how the formerly peaceful village grew more and more like to the Vikings or Picts for violence.

            You would? Then all the better I skip it, lest your lust for blood grow harder and harder to quench. The meat of the thing is that one day, Heorold was seen to bludgeon one of the ceorls who’d fought under Hogarth. In fact, it was Hogarth’s nephew – a freeman of his household, Cwynn. All who beheld it drew in their breath, both in fear of Hogarth’s good temper giving way once and for all, and in fear of Heorold treating them likewise should they dare speak.

             Hogarth stood tall, his eyes widening the smallest bit as his lips clenched in utter contempt. “How can you dare to do such a thing before the sight of everyone? What madness is this? You are a man whom I have always held in high regard, but look at how you have disgraced yourself, your ancestors, and your descendants by killing a man who did you no real harm! I should have your head.”

 And from the way he tightened his grip on the ash, everyone expected that he would thrust it through Heorold’s heart and then cleave the head from his shoulders.

             Another long moment passed, in which none dared stir.

             The grip relaxed.

             “But I will not.” His head held tall. “I will not, for you are too valuable. What would your house be without you? What would this village become with your house thrown down into shame and dishonor?”

             (He did not say “For your kin would then have mine.” He was, perhaps, too diplomatic for that.)

             “My womenfolk grieve, for you have slain their kindred wickedly – Blodwyn’s husband, and Anna’s son. Therefore I call on you to pay our clan the price of his head: 250 shillings, for he was a freeman with hides of land.”

             Heorold looked at him, hiding the contempt behind his thin smile and his empty eyes, and bowed very slightly. “As your lordship demands, let it be done. I would only ask that you grant me two weeks’ time for the weregild to be gathered.”

             Hogarth nodded, more like his normal, genial self than any of the onlookers expected.

             “Two weeks! Then let us meet at this spot for the debt to be repaid and thus erased.”

 

            Your blood stays warm, Godwyn? Listen on.

 

            Most animosity died from that point. Blood had been spilt, payment had been demanded. Perhaps it helped that the earth, too, thawed, and the first buds of the spring grew. One of Hogarth’s men shot a curiously fine buck and they feasted on it.

             So there was I. I was gone from the hearth “to fetch wine…” Or, well, so we called it.   In fact I was gone to meet with one of the kindred of Heorold…a sweet, unspoiled light-haired beauty. Creeping out in among the shadows, I saw Hogarth go forth alone. Curious practice, when usually several men were met up to gather in what cattle or sheep or gold were used to pay the bloodprice.

             He set out and I followed, some distance behind, taking care – I could not have said why – not to be seen.

             A servant met Hogarth at the agreed spot, saying “My lord Hogarth! Lord Heorold wishes that you come to meet him back by the ford, for he anticipates trouble at the crossing.”

             Hogarth went willingly enough, though it seemed curious to me that there be trouble at the ford which was best suited to crossing. Why should there be trouble there?

             I crept on in silence. The servant walked back with Hogarth to where Heorold was said to be, but instead of staying to assist in the crossing, he ran back down the riverside, perhaps to where is own home was. Heorold and Hogarth were alone.

             “Well met, friend!” called Heorold.

             “Well met,” replied Hogarth, out of manners more than easiness with Heorold. He looked more uncertain of himself than I’d ever seen.

             Then some words too low for me to hear. Some taunting on the part of Heorold. An instant of fear on Hogarth’s face as Heorold raised his hand, and a curious sight as light seemed to issue from that hand and strike Hogarth’s breastbone.

             From my vantage I could not see what happened next, so you can imagine that I was hard put to it not to yell when Hogarth disappeared. No, he was not simply knocked over. He was gone. Such a man would be difficult to hide, you see. Then Heorold stooped, knelt down, and gathered something from off the ground. I saw it not but the clink of coins was unmistakable. He seemed to be an age gathering them, one by one into his bag, as though they needed be gathered in some particular order.

             My knees were giving way crouching in the brush like that. But at last he finished and stood up, straighter than I’d yet seen him, seeming taller. His smile waxed in cruelty as I peered.

             Then he proceeded across the ford, without any trouble at all, and strode rapidly off to the village.

             Still in shock at the disappearance of my lord, I was not certain what to do. For a long time, breath itself eluded me. When I could hear anything over the sound of my pounding heart, I got weakly to my feet.

             Fortunately I did not have to ford the stream; doubtless it would have gone poorly. I stumbled through the underbrush, grabbed a wineskin, and made my way back to Beria. _You’ve been an age!_ she scolded, but I had nothing to respond. All focus went to my face; never had I been so anxious to appear at ease. Whatever Heorold had done, I should hate for it to befall me….had I heard aright? Had I seen rightly? All I had witnessed, all I perceived, suggested that Heorold _had turned my master to gold._

             The rest of dinner went by in a haze wherein I attempted to eat and to drink as though nothing had happened. Then the moment I dreaded, where Heorold stepped in. All went silent.

             He spoke so that all might hear, but no louder: _where is the lord Hogarth? See how I have come bearing the price of my guilt to pay him, but he was not at the village pike._

             There was a bit of a stir. Some others of Hogarth’s nephews and sons leapt to their feet, crying for his blood, hollering that he had somehow done their kinsman harm just as he had Cwynn. Heorold’s stillness was wonderful and awful. When the last angry speech died into silence, he spoke again.

             “I have done nothing to Hogarth. I have not seen him today. Have you? Was he not to meet me in the square? Have you not seen it? Have you not seen him? But I will complete my errand.” And with that he stepped over to Hogarth’s wife and laid the bag at her feet.

             She peered inside, and wept…for though it was the money for Cwynn, she seemed to take it as a promise that Hogarth would never come home to her. “But where is Hogarth?” she asked, as though Heorold knew and would tell her. “I have no idea what to do with it without him.”

             “Madame….there is nothing I can tell you beyond my futile wait. May yours,” he said with unexpected gentleness, “not be vain.”

             And he stood and went out and no one touched a hair of him, though no one ever found the body or bone of Hogarth.

            

            For a long time, Hogarth’s wife would not let go of it.

             Another took Hogarth’s place as the head of the war-band and head of the clan. The wife was more or less shunted to the back, a widow among the other wives, grieving silently.

             As for me, I was afraid for the way that Heorold then grew more powerful than ever. I was afraid of the gold the widow spent. I feared all, lest the things about me be the sorcerer in disguise, or lest the objects I used turn out to be some person I had loved, transfigured to resemble a coin, a cup, a drinking horn, an arrow broken in flight.

             And so I have left my lord’s house, and left that service, which is like to banishment though self-inflicted. The fear has overmastered me, even if it has not mastered you. Think to yourself how you would like your life to be in a narrow purse, or shut within a box. Think whether the man turned into coins knows his fate, or whether his knowledge has ceased and passed away into the sky.

 

            Your blood remains hot. Very well. But think you how you may not recognize that wizard at all when you meet him in the road. Think of the man who encased another in a metal guise, all for the sin of being a generous and well-loved man. Think what evils may meet you despite your best efforts. Think how they may come to you with the countenance of your greatest friends.

             You do not know who you may trust, and may never know again.

             So with that, I bid you a good night and hearty sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this isn't really part of any fandom, and I'm not the most well-versed in Anglo-Saxon history/customs/names/whatever. But since it's nearly Halloween, I thought I'd share a (slightly) spooky story. 
> 
> Criticism welcomed! Especially if you ARE well-versed in Anglo-Saxon customs etc.


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